


That Time Derek Took an Arrow to the Knee

by eeyore9990



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sexual Tension, accidental injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 20:10:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1150267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore9990/pseuds/eeyore9990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek would like to point out, for the record, that the title of this fic is wildly inaccurate. No matter <i>what</i> Stiles says, or how beautifully he laughs when he says it.  </p><p>Because really.  Derek was <i>there</i>.  Allison shot him in the <i>thigh</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Time Derek Took an Arrow to the Knee

**Author's Note:**

  * For [qafmaniac](https://archiveofourown.org/users/qafmaniac/gifts).



> This fic was written with love and deep gratitude for Qafmaniac, who requested Sterek H/C with possible sexytimes. 
> 
> Beta'd by the most wonderful Leela, who took some of her precious free time (I still don't think she actually has any, but...) to look this over and make it a thousand times better. Thank you, bb, thank you.

It's an accident.

It's such a startling, insane, freakish _accident_ that in the first few seconds after it happens, Stiles can only stand there and laugh. It's not funny, oh god, it's really not, but he can't stop. 

He's beginning to think he'll never stop—that this is the final horror for him, that his brain has checked the fuck out—when Derek's body slumps to the ground. Stiles' laughter cuts off so abruptly it startles him and he can only stand there, gaping at Derek.

The arrow is stuck so deeply in Derek's upper thigh that there is only about an inch of the shaft protruding below the fletching. The rest of it went straight through, missing the bone or... Stiles stifles a rush of nausea. Or maybe it cut through the bone as well.

It is that thought that sends him to his knees beside Derek, has him feeling with a shaking hand for a pulse. But the laughter he stifled is still ringing in his ears, high and mocking and making his breath thin out so much that he can't get oxygen, that his head is spinning and spots are dancing in his vision. His fingers slip against Derek's skin and his hand lands awkwardly on a twig that's sticking up from the ground, sending a bolt of pain up his arm.

Like a bubble popping, outside noise rushes in on him and he realizes Allison is there on the other side of Derek, screaming questions while tears fill her eyes and tremble at the barrier of her lashes, building until they spill over. Scott pulls her back, wraps her tight in his arms while shooting a half-terrified, half-resigned look at Stiles.

Stiles, whose hand is damn near vibrating, can't feel a pulse over the ambient flutter of his own pending panic attack. Three deep breaths have him centered, and he's finally able to steady his hand, close his eyes, and concentrate. 

And it's there, Derek's pulse. So strong and sure that it amazes Stiles that he couldn't feel it before. 

With a relieved sigh, he looks up at Scott and Allison and nods. Allison's legs go out from under her and she really cries then, great heaving sobs of, "Oh god, oh god, oh thank god."

And then Stiles' brain kicks into gear, and he looks at Scott. His worry must be evident, because Scott lets go of Allison and moves closer, squatting between her and Derek, who is _still_ unconscious.

"Why isn't he awake yet?" Stiles murmurs, for Scott's ears only.

Scott licks over his bottom lip, nostrils flaring as he scents the air, face twisting up unpleasantly. "There's something...I don't know. Allison?" He turns to Allison, who is trying to pull herself back together, and asks, "Was there something on the arrow tip?"

"No, just a normal tip..." Allison's face goes slack with horror and her whole body starts shaking. "Yes. It was earlier today, but—" She has to cover her mouth with a trembling hand and compose herself before she can continue. "I was handling some oil before I came out. It was a new variant of wolfsbane that Dad was showing me, and I wanted to test the consistency because of weight factors. I can't... I don't remember washing my hands after. I came straight out here. Oh God, Scott, did I... Did I touch you too?" She holds her hands out and stares at them in horror.

Scott puts a gentle hand on her arm—far away from her hands, Stiles can't help but notice—and says, "Hey, I'm fine. Okay? You didn't hurt me. But we need to help Derek now."

Stiles nods and feels the hardness of necessity fill him. "Well, the good news is, it couldn't have been a full dose. More good news is the tip went straight through. Bad news is, we need to get the arrow out and clean the wound. Is there an antidote to this new formula?" he asks Allison, who immediately stands, brushing leaves and dirt from her clothes.

"I'll call Dad and ask."

As she moves away, Stiles looks at Scott. "Can you break off the arrow here?" He points to a place just under the fletching. 

Scott pops his claws, and Stiles watches Derek's face for any sign of discomfort as Scott cuts cleanly through the shaft of the arrow. He's simultaneously relieved and worried when Derek's face remains slack in unconsciousness.

Scott lifts Derek's entire body and holds him high enough for Stiles to ease the arrow from Derek's thigh. Stiles ignores the blood that drips in a steady stream down the shaft and over his fingers. He only winces a little as he feels the shaft scraping over bone inside Derek's leg. His knees _definitely_ don't go weak when the arrow is completely clear and he can throw it far away from Derek. It's close, though.

"We have to get him to Deaton," Allison says, hanging up on Mr Argent. "Dad's going to meet us there."

Stiles looks at her, wants to ask how bad it is, but her expression is shuttered and she's just barely holding it together. He can't break her again. Not now. They'll have answers soon enough.

~*~

Deaton stands back from the operating table, peeling the bloody gloves from his hands. "I've cleaned the wound as best I can. Now we just have to wait for the antidote to kick in."

"But he's going to be okay?" Stiles asks, looking up from where he'd been staring in morbid fascination at Derek's wounded, muscular thigh. A sheet is draped over Derek's hips, preserving his modesty. But Stiles can see, around the orangey iodine and streaks of dried blood outside the clean area, where Derek's leg hair darkens and thickens into pubic hair and—

"He'll be in some pain, and likely heal human-slow, but yes. He'll survive."

Deaton's interruption of his mental wanderings has Stiles blushing and looking away.

"Thank you!" Scott rushes forward to clasp Deaton's hand in his, offering all sorts of proposed methods of payment while Stiles goes back to studying Derek.

He wraps his fingers around Derek's wrist and smoothes his thumb over the knob of bone. "Hey, buddy, time to wake up. You've sufficiently scared the shit out of all of us. So, y'know, joke's over."

Allison approaches the other side of the table and smoothes a lock of hair off Derek's forehead. "Yeah. You need to wake up and appreciate all the groveling I've been storing up. I'll even get on my knees, you big lug."

Stiles shoots her a mock-scandalized look and they both crack up, which is, of course, when Derek's eyelids begin to flutter. 

"The last thing I remember is Stiles laughing at me. Why, god, is my life such utter shit that it's the first thing I have to hear when I wake up?" Derek croaks, the tortured sound of his voice sending Allison scrambling for a cup of water. "And fuck, who's burning the shit out of my leg?"

"Yeah," Stiles says, wincing. "About that. Apparently Allison was standing over a mole run? And just before she loosed her arrow, the ground caved under her foot and...uh. She kinda shot you point blank? And there was a tiny, residual bit of wolfsbane on the arrow? And...so. You're fine," he rushes to say when Derek's face pales. "We got the arrow out and Deaton patched you up. But, uh, slow healing? And pain? Yeah, those are gonna be things. In your life." He coughs and looks around, desperate for someone to come help him out over here.

"Why are you holding my hand then? That's a thing people do when—"

"Whoa!" Stiles drops Derek's wrist like a hot potato. "Haha, yeah, sorry about that." Running his hand through his hair, he grimaces and shrugs. "Just, y'know. We were worried. Never seen you out of it like that when you weren't actively dying."

"We?" Derek's skepticism is accompanied by an eyebrow lift.

"Yeah, shit. Of course. Allison _cried_ , dude. Scott got all stoic and square-jawed. I mean, it was more lopsided triangle than square, but..." Stiles' hands flutter around, his gestures growing more extravagant as Derek's lips quirk into a half-smile.

"And what'd you do? Throw up at the first sign of blood?"

"Pssht, whatever. I am a manly beacon of strength. I am a bastion of calm. A bulwark of—"

"Bullshit?"

"Oh man, I was hoping Deaton had got all the _asshole_ out, but apparently he missed some. I'll just get him..." Stiles stops talking because Derek is laughing and grimacing all at once and it's _doing things_ to him. 

"All right, boys," Deaton says, scaring the crap out of Stiles and lending credence to the old adage about speaking of the devil. "I have actual canine and feline clients who need this room. Derek, I have an antibacterial ointment I want you to take with you. It's meant for cow udders, but it'll help your wound heal faster." 

"Do you have anything he can take for the pain?" Stiles asks, knowing Derek won't.

"Normally his body would metabolize anything I could give him, but with the wolfsbane slowing his healing... perhaps? Nothing too strong, though. Some over the counter pain medicine, in extra strength form to start. Nothing aspirin-based," he says sternly, looking directly at Stiles, who nods.

"Yeah, no, of course not. Okay, uh." Stiles looks down at all two hundred plus pounds of pure Derek and grimaces. The most he's ever been able to bench was like one seventy five. There's no way he can lift Derek. "Scotty? Gonna need your help sneaking Derek out the back, dude."

Derek pulls a face at Stiles and pushes himself to a sitting position, face going absolutely _white_ with pain as he swings his legs off the operating table. His hands tighten on the metal, wrinkling it a little with his fingers before he shudders and drags in a harsh-sounding breath. "Okay, yeah. A little help."

With Scott shoring him up on one side and Stiles on the other, they get Derek out of the clinic.

~*~

"Ho boy." Stiles chews on his lip as he stares down at the tiles of Derek's bathroom floor.

Bringing Derek to his apartment downtown was the best option, considering both Stiles and Scott live in houses with stairs and that's just impossible until Derek heals enough to frog leap down them again. 

Dude cannot use stairs like a normal person.

But Scott also has a job and a girlfriend and a mom who kinda expects more _presence_ from him than Stiles' dad does. So it was decided that Stiles would move in with Derek for the duration of his recovery, with Scott checking up on them occasionally to make sure Derek hadn't murdered Stiles in a fit of annoyance.

Okay, Scott actually said _check in to see if Stiles needs help_ , but Stiles knows exactly what that's code for.

So now Stiles is faced with the worst fucking dilemma of his life in the form of a half-naked Derek, whose only claim to decency is a fluffy towel wrapped around his waist, and a soapy sponge. A half-naked Derek who expects Stiles to use said sponge to clean off his back. Because Derek can't take a shower until his stitches come out and he's kinda gross from all the fainting on the forest floor with bonus surgery.

"Okay," Stiles mutters and watches Derek's shoulders lift in a long-suffering sigh. And of course, because this is his life, the lifting of said shoulders leads to a mouthwatering display of shifting, flexing muscle that just...nope.

Stiles smacks the sponge against Derek's skin, swallowing hard when a thin line of suds squish out and start running down the center of his back. Closing his eyes, he tries to scrub only by feel, and he thinks maybe it's working because Derek isn't bitching. Considering how much Derek enjoys bitching at, about, and because of Stiles, that's pretty much a guarantee that Stiles is doing a fantastic job of playing nursemaid,

Which is a very good thing, because Stiles' will is not strong enough to withstand the sight of all of Derek's ridiculous back muscles shifting in the bathroom light while _wet_ and _soapy_. His brain will make the leap to porn, bad 70's soundtrack and all, and he'll end up tackling Derek on the bathroom floor and—

"Stiles?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm pretty sure my back has never been more clean," Derek says, his voice utterly dry.

Stiles pulls the sponge back and cracks one eye open to see that Derek is turning toward him, an eyebrow raised in silent judgement. Yeah, okay, he deserves that. Rolling his eyes, Stiles gestures toward the shower, holding out an arm for Derek to brace himself against, and says, "Climb in so I can rinse you off. Don't wanna get water all over the floor."

"If this makes you uncomfortable—"

"Pfft, uncomfortable? Me? Psssh. Not even. Whatever. _Your face_ is uncomfortable." Okay, that made...no sense. "Look, just, let's get this over with." He waits for Derek to get a good hold on the bar set at waist height before leaning down to rinse the sponge under the tap. "Hey, how're you holding up? Need to sit down for a minute?" 

When Derek doesn't answer right away, Stiles turns his head to look up at him only to see that Derek has an expression of extreme hunger on his face and he's staring...at Stiles' ass. Huh. 

That is...

That is completely new information, and Stiles could fucking cry because seriously, it's not like he can take advantage of the situation. Derek is _hurt_ , just had surgery, and might be acting under the influence of the wolfsbane. 

But it really isn't helping Stiles' attraction level that the towel doesn't quite close completely over Derek's hip and is parted down the thick length of his uninjured thigh. Or that there are these ridiculous veins that stand out in stark relief against the rippling musculature of Derek's lower abs.

Blinking abruptly, Stiles squeezes the water out of the sponge and stands up, causing Derek to snap out of whatever daze he'd been in. 

"Sorry, what'd you say?" Derek asks.

"How's your leg?" Stiles' voice is rough, and he clears it while gesturing at Derek to turn around.

"Oh. It's fine. I can stand on it a little longer, I think. The pills you gave me are dulling the pain. Plus, I'm pretty sure it'll be completely healed in a few days, wolfsbane or no. It's already easier to stand on than it was at the clinic."

"Considering you couldn't put any weight on it then," Stiles says, wiping the soap from Derek's back, "that's not saying much."

Derek drops his head forward when the sponge swirls up near the back of his neck. "How about this? It hurts like fuck, but I can put weight on it."

"Whoo hoo, honesty. Just let me know if you need a break."

"Mostly I just want to get this towel off me. It's all wet and clammy," Derek says, running a finger under the material of the towel where it's bunched at his waist. It loosens and slips a little lower, showing the top curve of his ass.

Stiles chokes and accidentally squeezes the sponge, making water rush down Derek's back to soak more of the towel. "Uh, sorry. I just...few more seconds and I'll be done."

"Take your time."

There's something about Derek's voice when he says that. It makes Stiles pause, makes him drag the sponge around the curve of Derek's side, makes him dip it low, run it over the skin that had so recently been bared. Stiles swallows roughly and knows his heartbeat is racing and his arousal has to be filling the smallish bathroom with pheromones.

And Derek is _still hurt_ , so he knows he needs to back away. He needs to calm down and get a hold of himself— _not like that_ , he mentally chides his dick when it gives an interested twitch.

Stiles takes a deep breath, swipes the sponge one more time over Derek's skin, and throws it near the drain. "Well," he says, and his voice is too loud and over-bright, but he just winces and pushes through the embarrassment. "You're officially clean enough to eat off."

_Oh god, oh god. Poor choice of words, idiot._

Derek turns to him, holding out a hand to get a firm grip on Stiles' shoulder before he lets go of the bar on the wall. He lets Stiles take a good portion of his weight, and there's actual sweat beading at his hairline by they time they limp their way to Derek's bed.

"Oh, hey," Derek says, blinking up at him from his seat on the edge of the mattress. "Can you get that ointment Deaton sent? I want to put some on before I go to bed."

"Yeah, yeah, of course." Stiles finds it in a plastic bag with Derek's wallet and the plaid over-shirt that Stiles was wearing when the day started. When he gets back to the bedroom, he nearly falls to his knees because Derek is stretched out on his stomach with the towel pulled high to bare his thigh all the way up to the underside of his ass and...

He's not going to survive this. He's really not. He's got a will of iron, but even iron melts when it gets hot enough and Stiles is freaking _boiling_ right now.

"If you can get the back, I can do the front." Derek's words are muffled by his arms, which are stacked under his head. He looks absolutely relaxed like this, half-naked and waiting for Stiles to lube him up. 

Put ointment on him.

Same thing?

Stiles has a very very quiet freakout, then pulls himself together and kneels on the edge of the bed, trying not to jostle Derek's bad leg too much. He uncaps the ointment, making a face at the smell. It's not really unpleasant, it's just _noticeable_. Shrugging, he gets a good amount on his finger and then hovers over the angry red line of flesh that's criss-crossed with thick black thread. "Um. I'm gonna..."

Derek shifts his hips in invitation, and the towel moves up another inch. Stiles bites his tongue, hard, trying not to stare at the shadows between Derek's thighs.

Gingerly, he reaches out and daubs the ointment onto Derek's wound. When Derek doesn't tense up or flinch in pain or anything, Stiles' touches become firmer, more sure. He's smoothing the ointment around a particularly jagged edge of the wound when Derek shifts. To keep from falling onto Derek's leg, Stiles jerks too far forward, his greased-up fingers spearing between Derek's thighs and lightly brushing against what can only be Derek's balls, holy shit.

"Oh fuck!" Stiles squeaks, flailing away and tumbling backward off the bed. He gives thanks for the thick padding under Derek's carpet when he lands awkwardly. "Sorry," he calls from the floor, then thumps his head against it for good measure.

After allowing himself a minute to just _die_ , he pushes to his feet and approaches the bed again, only to see that Derek is struggling to turn over, his face twisting up in pain. He grunts out his thanks when Stiles grabs him under a shoulder and hip and helps.

Derek's hand is shaking and his eyes are closed as he reaches for the ointment, so Stiles bats his hand away and grabs the tin himself. He gives himself a very stern lecture about injured werewolves and then ignores everything but the wound. When he's finished, he doesn't even allow his fingers to linger, just stands, gathers up the ointment, and turns his back.

"Toss me your towel. I'll put it back in the bathroom."

Terrycloth falling over his head is Derek's only response.

~*~

It's the middle of the night when he's woken up from weird dreams about zombie pineapples wearing boleros by the sound of pained whimpers coming from the bedroom. Stiles rolls off the couch, grimacing at the twinge in his back, and pads towards the door.

"Derek?" he calls softly, knowing that if Derek's awake, it'll be more than enough to announce his presence.

Derek doesn't respond, though, just twists and turns on the bed, legs moving restlessly under a thin sheet. Stiles darts forward because Derek's jerking can't be good for his stitches. He slides onto the bed just as Derek turns away from him. Not knowing what else to do, he wraps one arm around Derek, making low shushing noises as he fits their bodies together.

Derek settles almost instantly and Stiles nibbles on his lip, considering whether to wake Derek and offer him some more pain meds. His inner battle is solved, though, when Derek starts snoring softly. It's...cute.

And Stiles is an idiot. Rolling his eyes at himself, Stiles wriggles into a more comfortable position, tightens his grip on Derek, and goes back to sleep.

~*~

When he wakes up the next morning, Derek is sitting on the side of the bed wearing basketball shorts, his injured leg curled up under him like it's nothing. He's holding a steaming mug of coffee in his hands and when Stiles sits up, offers it wordlessly.

"Oh my god," Stiles mumbles, dragging his tongue over a tiny chip in the mug's rim after taking that first sip. "Hazelnut. You _do_ love me."

For a while, the only sound comes from Stiles' slurping, and the heavy footsteps of Derek's upstairs neighbor. It isn't broken until Derek speaks.

"You...helped me yesterday." The way his voice rises at the end gives the sentence the feeling of a question. Or maybe it's just Derek's own astonishment that anyone would do such a thing ringing through the words.

Stiles rolls his eyes and shrugs. "Sure. Dude, I don't know if you remember, but you took an _arrow to the knee_." When Derek opens his mouth to say something, Stiles smacks his own face with an open palm, dragging it down and stretching out his skin. "Oh my _god_ , I have literally waited years to make that joke. Don't take the moment away from me now."

Face betraying his bewilderment, Derek lets it go with a shrug and mumbles, "Thank you."

Stiles frowns down at his empty mug. "Did you put something in this? Because I could swear I just heard you say _thank you_ —"

"Shut up. Asshole."

"That's more like it! Now, threaten to rip my throat out with your teeth, and I'll know you're feeling better."

A light tap to the back of Stiles' head is Derek's only response, but there's a grin fighting to break through on his face. "If you don't mind, though, I need you to help me take the stitches out before you go home."

"Whoa. What? You're not..." Stiles stutters into silence when Derek lifts the leg of his shorts, showing off the hairy but completely healed skin of his upper thigh. "Huh. Deaton said it'd take a few days."

Derek shrugs, thumb rubbing over the place where the arrow had pierced him. "My body must have flushed the wolfsbane sometime during the night. All I know is, when I woke up, I was back to normal."

"Man," Stiles breathes, leaning forward and running his fingers over the skin. "I will never get over how awesome that is." Sitting back, he settles his mug on the nightstand and then hops up from the bed, tugging his shirt down over his boxers. "Well, c'mon, let's get those stitches out. They must itch like a son of a bitch."

Derek follows him into the bathroom where the light is best and hands him a pair of fingernail clippers and some tweezers. "Just lift the knot, clip one side, and pull. It'll take a good tug, because the skin healed around the thread, but I don't want to just leave it." Then he turns and drops his shorts and—

—and Stiles, who'd dropped to his knees, is left staring straight at Derek's beautiful, naked ass.

The clippers fall from Stiles' numb fingers and for just a moment he's left wondering which supernatural foe to blame for sucking all the oxygen out of the room. And then he realizes it's not a bad guy, just that Derek's ass has left his body completely incapable of performing normal functions. Like breathing.

A short, wheezing sound erupts from him, and he knows, can _feel_ , that Derek is about to comment on it, so he lets out a strangled, "Shut up. Just shut up," and snatches the clippers back up.

He can do this. He _can_.

And then he can leave and move out of state and change his name so that he never has to look Derek in the eye again. Because even _he_ can smell the horny dripping off of himself, and he just has a measly, human nose.

With every bit of strength he has, Stiles uses the tweezers to lift the first knot, steadies the side of his shaking hand against Derek's warm thigh, and slips the edge of the clippers under the thread. Squeeze, tug, release. 

Over and over until the stitches are gone and only the memory of the torn skin remains.

Stiles jumps to his feet, looking everywhere but at Derek's fully naked body—fully naked except his feet, which are covered by the pooled material of his shorts. "Well, I'll just—"

"Stiles." Dereks kicks his feet free and turns toward Stiles, who whimpers and tips his head back, staring so hard at the ceiling his eyes start to water. 

A ragged breath bursts through the air, and for a wild second, Stiles thinks it was him. But then Derek's hand is on his throat, fingers splayed out from his jaw to his collar bone. Stiles is just _done_. 

"Derek." His voice is a wrecked plea, so he licks his lips and tries again. "You—"

"Do you know why I healed?"

The question is so far out of left field that it startles Stiles. "Uh. You're a werewolf?"

"It's because I was able to enter a healing sleep. Deaton...he assumed I wouldn't. That I wouldn't be able to. That's why he said a few days to a week." Derek's fingers tighten on Stiles' neck, not enough to choke or alarm him, but as if he's reassuring _himself_ that Stiles is here. Is real.

The very idea of Derek needing that kind of reassurance makes Stiles pause, has him remembering the way Derek looked at him last night, and his heart gives a lurching thump. "Why wouldn't you?"

"I'd have to feel safe. Secure. I haven't been able to enter a healing sleep since Kate," Derek whispers, and the lurch turns into a twist.

"Derek..."

"I woke up this morning, and you were holding me _so tight_. You put yourself between me and the door. Made your body a shield for mine."

Stiles' lips part, and he shakes his head. "Dude, I'd take a bullet for you, you know that, but—"

"Yeah, I do. I do know that. I _trust_ you to have my back." The way Derek says that, so surprised, sends a flush of impotent rage through Stiles at every person who's ever hurt him.

"Let me," Derek says, then leans toward Stiles, his gaze dropping to Stiles' mouth, and it's really fucking obvious what's about to happen.

"Oh, hell no." Stiles says, jerking away. "No. Derek, dammit, your body is not some...commodity, okay? I'm not going to let you let me _use_ you just because—"

" _What?!_ " Pure shock wipes the hazy look from Derek's eyes, and he rears back. "You think I'm...what?"

Rubbing a hand over his nose, Stiles lowers his gaze, then blushes furiously and slams his eyelids closed. "Look, you've never given any indication _before this_ that you feel anything other than irritation for me, okay?! I mean, yeah, we've got a weird friendship thing, but it's comprised almost entirely of sarcasm and threats. What the hell else am I supposed to think?"

"Yeah, you irritate me! Mostly because you have no _fucking idea_ what you do to me! And excuse me for not exactly trusting myself when it comes to my dick, okay?"

"Can we please not talk about your dick?" Stiles mutters, lifting his hand to clamp it over his eyes, just in case. "I'm trying _really hard_ not to jump on it right now."

"Why is everything so difficult with you? You want me. I want you." The way Derek says it makes it sound so easy, so simple.

Stiles wants to put his head down and cry. "I don't—" A scoffing sound makes him drop his hand to glare at Derek, who takes a huge, exaggerated sniff of the air. "Oh, fuck you. Yes, okay, I want you. But not...not like this. Not when it doesn't _mean_ anything. I want more than that. I deserve more than that, okay? I deserve someone who wants all of me. And so do you."

Jaw setting at an angle, Derek jerks his hand back and looks away. "Yeah. Okay. I understand."

"Oh my fuck. No, you don't." Because he can hear it in Derek's voice. See it in the hunch of his shoulders. Derek somehow thinks Stiles is telling him he _doesn't_ want that with Derek. And what the hell, he's already got his bug-out route planned, may as well humiliate himself all the way. "Yeah, dude, I want that with _you_. Okay? Shit, I've wanted that with you for a really long fucking time. It's cool. I'm, like, a professional pine-er. It's what I do. Ask Lydia."

He tries to smile, tries to turn it into a joke, because he's comfortable with that. But his voice, when it catches on words, sounds so needy that he flinches inside. "I want dinner with my dad, where I tell him you're my boyfriend and he threatens to shoot you. I want phone calls with Cora where she tells me I'm a fucking loser and if I hurt you, she knows how to hide my body. I want to torment Scott and Isaac with heavy innuendo about our love life and make the entire pack gag with how _cute_ we are. I want Sunday morning pancakes and you holding me when I visit my mom and me holding you when you visit yours. I want...Jesus. You have no idea _how much I want_. So don't offer me a taste, okay? It's too much." His voice runs out of strength and he swallows, starts to turn away.

"You can't do that. You can't _offer me that_ and take it away." Derek grabs Stiles, arm and jerks him back around. His eyes are bright, fucking _wild_ , and his cheeks are flushed with color. "You can't... Stiles..." 

"Fuck," Stiles gasps, and plunges forward, meeting Derek halfway. 

It's their first kiss. It should be horrible and awkward, and filled with clashing teeth and bumping noses, but it's _not_. It's so good, so fucking perfect, that it sends a bolt of terror through Stiles. Because if it's this good now... He's not going to survive this. He's going to burn alive.

And yeah, sure, he'll be the happiest fucker to ever let the flames lick him, but he'll still be dead. And a dead Stiles doesn't get to have his happy ever after.

"Oh my god, shut up," Derek groans into his mouth, tilting his head to chase after and suck on Stiles' tongue. It's a very effective maneuver, and silences Stiles' brain almost immediately.

Derek rips Stiles' shirt off, and he knows he should maybe be upset about that—he'll pout, later, until Derek kisses the pout off his face—but right now it just seems expedient. Same for the boxers. Hell, they were old anyway.

When Stiles is as naked as Derek started out, Derek kisses a trail along his jaw, scrapes his teeth over the shell of Stiles' ear, and drags his fingernails over Stiles' nipples, making him go on tiptoe as lust slams through him. 

"God, you have no idea," Derek whispers hotly, his breath damp against Stiles' skin. "I've had so many fantasies about these. Just wanna hold you down and lick them for hours. Wanna make you _cry_ it feels so good."

"Jesus, Derek." He just...he can't even...his brain just cannot function with the image Derek's given him.

"Wanna taste you all over. Bite you 'til the skin creases but doesn't break. Suck bruises all over you. Leave my scent all over you. Mark you up so everyone knows you're mine. Let you mark me right back." Derek's words cut off as he bends his head to run his tongue over Stiles' throat.

"Fuck, Derek, please!"

He's not going to last. Neither of them are. 

But Stiles wants that too, all of it. Wants scratches on his skin where Derek forgot himself, forgot to be so careful. Wants hickeys. Everywhere. He wants to bite Derek's ass and watch the bruises fade, then bite it again just because.

He thinks maybe he says some of that out loud, he's not sure, but Derek's lifting him, pinning him against the wall—cold tiles, holy shit—

"Wanna suck you, taste you."

"Put my tongue inside you."

"Feel you so far in me."

"Please."

" _Please._ "

He's coming, and it's messy, and it...god, it's like his orgasm is traveling from his _toes_ or something, which wouldn't really be surprising, given how they're curling up, cramping his feet. But before his last spurt dribbles out, Derek's burying his face in Stiles' throat, blunt teeth digging in, and he's adding to the mess between them, his hips stuttering against Stiles'.

The bathroom echoes with their breathing for long minutes until Derek finally loosens his grip—but doesn't let go, oh no. "We..." he starts, lips moving over Stiles' collar bone, then clears his throat and tries again. "We should get cleaned up. Make some pancakes."

Stiles laughs, pure joy spreading through him. "While we're doing that...can I call Scott?"

"Nah." Derek lifts his head from Stiles' shoulder and yeah, there's a disgustingly satisfied smirk on his face. "If you tell him ahead of time, you'll miss the look on his face when he walks in to check on us later and smells... This."

"Oh my god. I take back every slight I ever made about your plans. You're obviously an evil genius."

And then, because Derek is a perfect fucking gentleman, he holds up one hand just above his shoulder, palm turned toward Stiles in invitation. 

Stiles' jaw drops open, and he blinks at Derek, asking with his eyes what he's afraid to give voice to for fear it might never be offered again.

Derek, though, just grins— _Jesus_ , those _dimples_ —and waggles his fingers.

 _Yeah,_ Stiles thinks, lifting his own hand to accept the high-five. He can deal with this.

**Author's Note:**

> MORE FIC OUTTAKES IN COMMENTS. (3? I know for sure there are three extras, but maybe more?)
> 
> [If you're confused by the arrow to the knee thing.](http://knowyourmeme.com/memes/i-took-an-arrow-in-the-knee)


End file.
